


Normality Is A Paved Road

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Stony - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment they met, Steve Rogers had fallen madly in love with Tony Stark.  But as time ticks on, he discovers there's a little more to the genius barista than he originally let on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The gallery opened today, I needed to calm my nerves. Coffee. Yeah, that sounded good. I pulled my phone from my pocket and shot Nat a quick text. “Need food, be there in fifteen minutes.” She never responded.   
Soon enough I was standing outside of The Buzz. It was a fairly new cafe, with brightly painted walls and chrome accents. I loved it, Nat did not.   
A bell chimes as the doors swing open. Immediately, I’m hit by the warm aroma of coffee.   
It smells like heaven.   
I’m walking up to place my order when I see him.   
Dark, tousled hair. Warm brown eyes. My heart flutters nervously and suddenly I wish there wasn’t clay in my hair and paint on my clothing.   
Tony. His name badge reads.   
“Hi,” I stammer nervously.   
“Hello.” He smiles warmly and suddenly I become very light headed.   
“Uh- I’ll take one medium black coffee, and a small iced latte.” I can barely get the words out.   
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He winks and I grab a fistful of my sweater. Oh. My. Gosh.   
He returns a few moments later with the drinks. I thank him as quickly as possible and dig $4.68 out of my bag.   
“Have a nice day!” He calls as I’m walking out. “You too!” I reply, but he’s already gone.   
I’m speed-walking downtown when I notice it.   
On my latte he’s scrawled, “Hey, you should call me sometime.” And his phone number (723)586-2218. I let out a happy gasp.   
I’m nearly bursting with excitement when I bump into Nat. “Here. Coffee.” I hand her the drink.   
“Ohmigosh. So I’m at the cafe, and this gorgeous barista writes this,” I show her the cup, “On my cup.”   
“Did you get a name?” She sighs, obviously not impressed with my lack of punctuality.   
“Yeah, Tony.” I breathe.   
“Tony?” She raises an eyebrow, “As in Stark?”   
Confusion begins to settle upon me, “You know him?”  
“Steve. Everyone knows him. His dad is a legend! Where have you been for the last seventy years?” She groans.  
“A legen-” I’m cut off by the arts director, Ms. Lemmings.  
“Rogers! Where have you been? We open in 30 minutes! Is that clay in your hair? Oh my--you know what? Go scrub the clay outta your hair, I need a smoke.” She fiddles with her necklace nervously and ducks outside.   
Frantically, I wet a few paper towels and scrub at my hair. After a few minutes of desperate washing, 80% of the clay is gone and my hair is sticking up in as many directions as possible.   
I nudge my glasses up the bridge of my nose. Straighten my Rosetti Art Gallery T-Shirt and march into battle.   
I’d been standing next to my work for two hours. I was exhausted, freezing and bored. When out of the blue Tony walked in.   
“Tony?” Now this is strange.   
Oh okay, he’s walking towards me, good mercy. “Um, hi. I saw your T-Shit and wanted to see what this was all about. You’re got a pretty big reputation, now I can see why.” He’s standing inches away from Freak No. 4.   
His eyes are aglow with wonder and it takes all my self control not to kiss him. “This is stunning.” He breathes, and my heart leaps.   
To be honest, it’s really not that great. It’s a sculpture of a woman with flowers filling her empty eye sockets, her mouth full of flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. If I wasn’t the artist, I’d find it really disturbing. And it was all clay, no reassuring color to soothe the mind, just ugly, honest clay. Except for a few fridge magnets pressed into her abdomen spelling out, “We are a part of nature too.”  
My roommate is afraid of me, my family is polite, but Tony? He reacted the way every artist dreams the audience will. My work seemed to touch him.   
It was amazing.   
The other sculptures are similar to Freak No. 4. Freaks 1-10 appear as normal as can be, but there’s always something slightly off.   
Soccer mom with mushrooms sprouting from her shoulders. Politician adorned in a flower crown. The list goes on and on. Football coach with sprigs of lavender peeking out of his sleeves. You get the idea.   
“I’m going to explore a bit, “ Tony announces, breaking my train of thought, “Are you free tonight? Maybe we could grab a bite or something; anyone who creates sculptures like this, has to lead interesting dinner conversations.” He smiles, and I stop breathing momentarily.   
“Y-yeah I’ll see you t-then.” I stutter anxiously and blush as he strides away to meet Monet.   
“ Okay. What was that?” Natasha strolls around the corner sporting a devilish grin. “Dude. He just asked you out!” She giggles.  
“I nearly passed out!” I laugh.   
“Oh my gosh, I don’t blame you. I mean, look at him.” She sighs. “So, are you going?”  
“Why not.” I shrug.


	2. Heaven is One Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll see, you'll see.

A black Jetta pulled up to the curb, surrounded by the glow of headlights against the wet asphalt. My heart lept to my throat and I shot a nervous glance back at Nat. “You got this, Steve!” She whispered and I began to walk out towards the car.   
“Steve Rogers.” Tony stated with a brilliant smile. “Tony Stark.” I replied, a bit more at ease.   
“You look amazing.” I couldn’t contain the blush that now stained my skin.  
“You like Italian?” He asked, opening the car door.   
“I love Italian.” I said and climbed in the car.   
Dark leather seats. Soft classical floating out from the speakers. I had to give it to him, he had taste.   
My phone buzzed and I dug it out of my pocket. It was a text from Natasha. How’s it going? ;)  
“Is that Warhol?” He asked, staring at my phone case.   
“Oh, um yeah, it is.” I reply, glad he noticed.   
“I never did understand modern art.” He sighs, “I mean it’s just a soup can.”   
“Oh, and we’re just two guys in a Jetta. You know we’re more than that, just like it’s a little more than a soup can.” I retort.   
“I dunno, art never was my forte.” He confesses.   
“Wouldn’t expect it to be, you’re a genius.” I try to keep my tone neutral, but I sound so hostile.   
“Mr. Rogers, I am not a genius!” He huffs melodramatically.   
“Scholarship to Johns Hopkins? If that’s not genius, what is?” I will admit, Natasha briefed me before I went out.   
“You wanna know something, I never really wanted to be a surgeon. I have this weird secret dream of becoming a florist.” Tony confesses.   
“A florist?” I cannot contain my shock.   
“Or a bookkeeper, or an author, a lot of things really. It’s my father that wanted me to be a surgeon, I never really wanted this. But, from what I’ve gathered everyone has the job they really want and the job that will pay the bills, and owning a floral shop won’t pay the bills, so…” He stares ahead into the beads of rain gliding down the windshield.   
“I’m a broke artist.”   
“You’re one hell of an artist, though.”   
“Art doesn’t pay the bills.”   
“Well neither does happiness. What’re you gonna do?”   
Finally, someone understands. Finally, finally, finally.   
“I’m an English major, and I want to go into teaching.” I admit.   
He smiles a perfect, brilliant smile, “What age?”   
“Fourth grade, or at least that’s what I’m aiming for.” My bones are filled with sunlight, and I fear I might illuminate the dark space between us.   
“That is so fantastic!” He exclaims, and I wish I had my sketchpad. I’d love to draw him, paint him, sculpt him. He’d be a perfect model.   
“Ahhh, here we are.” He pulls up into an empty space on the street. The Garden House, reads the glowing sign. “Their eggplant parmesan is indescribably good.” He sighs, “I’d highly recommend.” 

The order had just been placed when a waiter strolled towards our table looking rather perturbed.   
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” I ask.   
“Yes,” he snarled, “A few of the other guests have filed complaints against you two.” He glares at Tony and I.   
Guilt strangles me. “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t know what we’ve done to offend anyone.” My voice sounds weak and scared. I feel for my inhaler to make sure it’s with me, now would not be a great time for an attack.   
“You are making the other customers uncomfortable!” He hisses through clenched teeth.   
“I’m so sorry, we’ll be on our w-way.” Tears well up in my eyes, this isn’t the first time this has happened.   
“No we won’t.” Tony whispers under his breath.   
“Like this?!” Tony shouts, and leans in to kiss me. A fragment of a second elapsed, before his hands were tangled in my air and he was kissing me. A lady covered her kid’s eyes, someone else gasped. My heart was beating in a freakish pattern and I couldn’t breathe.   
Oh mercy, he smelled like peppermint and laundry detergent.  
“Young man!” The waiter hissed, and the hostess appeared. “What’s happening?” She asked, her facial expression changing from curious to frustrated when she saw the waiter’s face.   
“Is there a problem here, folks?” She asked, exasperation creeping up into her tone.   
“I didn’t think there was!” Tony snapped, “But Skippy McHomophobe over here, seems to think otherwise!” He was yelling now, and the entire restaurants eyes were on us.   
“Look, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but the needs of many outweigh the needs of one. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. A waitress passed with two slices of cheesecake on a tray. “Here, have a nice evening.” She snatched the desserts and left them on the table in her wake.   
“You too! And, Irene?” He asked, reading the tag pinned to her blouse, “You can cancel the Stark reservations!” And with that he dug a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet, crumpled it up, and tossed it at the irate waiter.   
“Adios bitches.” And we left, with cheesecake, and me smiling like an idiot. 

“That was… bloody brilliant.” I wheeze on the way back to the car.   
“You think so?” He laughed and threw the car into gear. “I mean, they don’t have the right to treat us like that! We were two quiet-ish, normal guys trying to enjoy some freaking Eggplant Parmesan! And this waiter walks up and gets on my case for what? The gender of my dinner date! Ugh, people…” He sighs and reaches to turn on the radio. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 starts up.   
“What do you suggest we do?” He glances over at me.   
I rack my brain, “Wait! There’s the waffle cart on Fourth Main. I’ve wanted to try it out, but Tasha’s allergic to gluten.”   
“Tasha?” He looks hurt. Oh my gosh, does he think Tasha’s my girlfriend or something?  
“Oh, she’s my best friend, and my roommate.” I reply quickly, and he seems to relax.   
“I need directions to this waffle place of your’s.” He chuckles.   
“Alright. Turn left here, then keep going straight until… yep, turn right here. Okay, it’s the parking lot by the hardware store.”   
As we’re hunting down the waffle cart, I keep thinking that maybe heaven is one moment. A millisecond in time, building off from there, with everything falling into place perfectly. If so, then this would be my moment, the one memory I’d like to take with me. I think about this and smile as I give him directions. Why shouldn’t I be smiling, I’m in heaven, aren’t I?


End file.
